


you can't wake up, this is not a dream

by violentdarlings



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Guilt, Pseudo-Incest, Unhealthy Relationships, clace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU after City of Bones the movie. Guilty sexy Clace. (Addit: and now, after last night's episode, is officially Shadowhunter canon too!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can't wake up, this is not a dream

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many feels after I watched the City of Bones movie yesterday. Don't get me wrong, I love the books and the TV series too, but movie!Clace is just so awesome. So this is written with the movie in mind, but honestly, guilty hot pseudo-incest Clace is practically canon. Title from Gasoline by Halsey, my new favourite artist.

The first time it happens, scant hours after Valentine is defeated, Clary had truly believed it was repulsion. Raw, unadulterated disgust at the thought of Jace, Jace she’s kissed and touched and loved, being her brother. Born of Valentine and born of Jocelyn, wholly and utterly Clary’s blood.

Isabelle had repeated in sheer horror, “Jace is _your_ brother?” And the shudder that had wracked Clary down to her very bones – she had believed, then, that it was nothing more than shock and disgust intermingled. That it was the events of the previous hours hitting her as though she had not lived through them but watched from a great height as the drama played itself out before her eyes.

And Jace, Jace standing off to the side, his eyes blank and his hands in loose fists at his sides, as though still fighting. Clary hasn’t been able to look at him for longer than a moment at a time. He won’t speak. Clary’s left to explain everything to Izzy and Simon and Luke, and only later does it occur to her that she could have that particular little detail out. And then the officials from the Clave are there and the world is spinning and Clary wants out, she wants fucking out, away from the shattered remnants of the Portal and her _brother_.

It’s only after Jace turns up at her house that Clary starts to get it. When she sees him standing there and every fibre in her body leaps to life like she’d been asleep without him. And wrapping her arms around his waist on the motorcycle and feeling the involuntary shiver ripple over his skin – Clary feels both too young to deal with this, and impossibly old.

It’s worse, being back in the Institute and knowing she’s not going to leave. She can’t go anywhere without being reminded of Jace, of things he has said and the glint of his eyes, the scent of apples and exotic flowers and the tinkle of the piano. It’s as if he’s following her around the Institute, and the times they have to be together are even worse. Every time someone refers to him as Clary’s brother, she has to lock her knees together against the sudden tide of arousal that starts between her legs and starfishes out through her entire body. She sees the odd looks Jace gives her at these times, and spends days in an agony of wanting and terror, thinking he’s noticed, thinking he _knows_.

It’s unsupportable, this way of life, and it comes to a head one night during training. He’s trying to teach her the correct way to block an incoming blow, and she’s just not getting it. She’s frustrated, he’s frustrated, they’re both tired and almost at the breaking point.

“It’s not that hard, Clary!” Jace finally snaps when she fails to block yet again. “Honestly, I can hardly believe you _are_ my sister, you’re so terrible at this.”

It’s too much. Her knees go out from under her and she hits the ground. The world is fuzzy around the edges but Jace is there, crouching down beside her, his face mingled guilt and confusion and fear.

“Clary?” he asks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be harsh with you. Don’t cry.” And it’s only then that Clary realises she is crying, shaking with the force of her sobs, in absolute despair and hideously aroused and so, so tired of hiding it. “Clary,” Jace is saying, his arms around her, his hand trying to turn her face up to his, “tell me what’s wrong, please.”

“You’re my brother,” Clary manages, and Jace’s whole body flinches like she’s struck him. He lets her go instantly, his hands fluttering in mid-air as though trying to hold the space around her, if he cannot put his hands on her skin.

“I know,” he says, his voice agonised, and Clary realises with a hysterical kind of irony that he thinks she’s disgusted with him. “I know that, Clary. I swear, I’d never lay a hand on you like I did before. I wouldn’t do that to you.” Clary drops her head into her hands, trying to curl up as small as possible. Anything, to lessen the hurt where his words lodge underneath her breastbone, to contain the want that seethes in the core of her. “Clary.” He sounds terrified. “Tell me I haven’t ruined this. I couldn’t bear to lose you. You’re my sister –”

His voice cracks, and it’s too much. Clary’s not strong enough, not to endure this. She unravels from the coil of misery and heartbreak she’d wrapped herself in, fists her hands in the thin softness of his shirt, and kisses him. Kisses Jace knowing full well he’s her brother, that he’s her blood, and Christ it’s like every vein in her body is singing at the rightness of it.

He shoves her away, so fast she barely has time to taste him. “What the hell?” he demands, his lovely voice shaking so much she can only just understand him and his accent thicker than usual. His beautiful face is tortured. “Clary, you can’t. We can’t. It’s wrong.”

“We can,” Clary says, hardly aware of the words falling out of her mouth. “It’s not wrong. It’s wrong for us to be apart.” She presses herself close to him, her heart almost skipping a beat when he doesn’t push her away. The scent of him has her salivating.

“But you’re my sister,” he starts, and gets no further. Clary knows what he sees in her face, the flash of want across her face and the glitter in her eyes. She’s beyond shame, beyond lying. All that’s left in the world is Jace and the angles of his face, the hidden valleys of his heart. “You’re my sister,” he says, sounding so astonished that for a moment she feels sorry for him. He never asked for any of this. Then again, neither did she. “And you don’t care. You. You like it.” And oh, she’d thought she was past humiliation at the dichotomy of her feelings but she’s not, she’s flushing crimson and so mortified she could die right here and not mind at all.

“You must hate me,” she says, her voice very small and her eyes fixed on the ground. But there are warm hands on her elbows, on her wrists, taking her hands in his.

“I could never hate you,” he says. One of his hands lifts her chin and the light in his eyes almost blinds her. “I just don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Clary bursts out. “It freaks the hell out of me. But you’re mine, don’t you see, and I’m yours. We were made for each other. We’re the same.”

“The children of a monster,” he murmurs. Clary closes her eyes against the burn of tears. “Maybe we were always destined to be monsters ourselves.” She tightens her hand on his.

“But we’re also Mom’s,” she replies. “And if Mom knows how to do anything, she knows how to love.” Jace smiles, a crooked thing that has nothing of humour in it.

“Redemption by love,” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t think such things existed, outside of fairy tales.” Clary shrugs.

“I don’t know about fairy tales,” she tells him. “I don’t know about being redeemed by love. All I know is that I think I’ll die if you don’t kiss me again.”

It’s the right thing to say. His eyes darken and his mouth is on Clary’s so fast she barely has time to breathe; she gasps and sinks her hand into the gilt of his hair as his arms come around her tighter than tight, squeezing all the breath out of her lungs. He is murmuring things against her mouth, little strings of words she hasn’t a hope in hell of understanding. Someday maybe she’ll ask him, but for now she’s content to sink into his kisses like she’s been suffocating without them.

She’s unbuttoning his shirt and his hands are cupping her ass and the taste of him is familiar and strange all at once when he stops her. “Clary, no,” he rasps, his voice like gravel, and Clary stares up at him, the Marks on his skin, the fever in his eyes. “This goes too far. We can’t.”

“Yes, we can,” she says, because maybe she’s more like Valentine than she’d thought. All wickedness and revolution and rebelling against what’s right. The thought is horrible, but worse is the idea of living without Jace. She’s on her knees and he’s on his knees and he’s all muscle against her, lithe and perfect and hers, her own, tied to her by a bond that can never be broken, as sacrosanct as _parabatai_.

Clary tugs until she’s on her back and Jace is hovering over her. They’re in the training rooms, anyone could come in, and it sets the blood to rushing in her veins. The idea of someone seeing her with Jace is terrifying and somehow impossibly right. She draws him down on top of her until she can feel every inch of him, the hardness he is trying to hide, the heaviness of his want for her.

“I’m never going to let you go,” she says, and something lights in his eyes, Jace Wayland, Jace Morgenstern, the abandoned boy who’d come to the Institute with ghosts following at his heels. He kisses her like the only oxygen left in the world is hers, his fingers at the waistline of her training clothes, hesitating there like he’s waiting for permission.

She says, “Yes, Jace, fuck,” and it seems to be enough. He slips his hand into her panties, musician’s fingers touching her where only she’s ever touched before, and he must know what he’s doing because his thumb finds her clit and she’s seeing stars.

“You want this so much,” he says, like it’s a marvel, like it’s impossible. “I can feel it. You’re so wet, I hardly need to touch you.”

“Touch me,” she echoes, unable to control the buck of her hips or the clench of her around his fingers. “Fuck, Jace, please.” She doesn’t call him brother but her mind is full of it, how he seems to fit her without trying. As though the universe designed him for her of the same atoms she’s made of, in the same womb, two creations cast from the same mould that could only ever complete each other.

Clary’s body is alight with his touch and it’s like she hardly needs to feel his hands on her skin, the actuality of being with him is enough. Clary’s never come so fast before, on her own, with her hand between her legs and her eyes screwed shut. Not even thinking of Jace, both before and after they’d discovered the truth. The world is fire and heaven around her, and she’s with her brother, and it’s so good.

Clary opens her eyes, and realises two things. One, she’s come so hard she’s left Jace’s hand soaking, and also that he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will. As though the broken moans leaving her throat and the arch of her against him is the hottest thing that could possibly exist in the world. His teeth are gritted, his eyes closed like he might come just from the sight of her, and his cock against her hip harder than anything she’s ever imagined.

“Jace,” she says, and with some effort he opens his eyes to look at her. “It’s okay,” she tells him, and rolls her hips against his cock. His whole body spasms. “I want you to.”

“You want me to what,” he rasps, but it’s not a question, it’s a test. Clary steels herself and touches his face, watches his eyelashes flutter, his body rock into her like iron pulled toward a magnet, like a compass to true north.

“I want you to come,” she says, and any idiocy she might feel at saying the words aloud is washed away by the way Jace throws his head back and groans. Clary holds still and waits, lets him rut against her until he bites out a gritted curse and his frame locks tight, the hair falling into his eyes and obscuring his face. The sounds he makes have Clary squirming, wanting the sweetness of his hands against her skin again, but she can wait. She strokes his back, the muscles tight under her fingers, until he stops shaking and his face is buried in the crook of her neck, hiding from the world.

“This is so wrong,” he says finally, his voice muffled by her skin, and Clary brushes her lips over his forehead, salt and sweat and Jace.

“I’ll be damned,” she tells him. “In any hell you want, with every demon you could think of. As long as I’m with you.”

He looks up, then, meeting her eyes, and Clary can’t work out if she’s thrilled or horrified, when he agrees.


End file.
